I walked right up to the edge of your cliff and looked over. I walked right up to the end of your life and looked in. I saw your plane coming down the runway from the line to get through security, but I fainted when I had to raise my hands. Inspected. Rejected. Lost. Found. Bound. No cell service and winds blowing in from the West. It’ll be eight minutes for you and the remainder for the rest. I’ve struggled with you all of my life were the words from the wheelchair in that tiny little bar in that tiny little neighborhood long forgotten and moved on from. A volunteer and the leather-bound sleeve. It’s time to go. It’s time to go. It’s time to go.